


Teléfono Langosta

by We_live_in_a_Society



Series: The Surrealities [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamscapes, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Films, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insomnia, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Dreams, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Poetry, Light BDSM, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Smut, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000, Wordcount: Under 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24790387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_live_in_a_Society/pseuds/We_live_in_a_Society
Summary: Putting out fire with gasoline is always a terrible idea.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Surrealities [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660720





	Teléfono Langosta

Every once in a while she has a dream, a dream beside grainy images, beside weird fluorescent light, and indistinct noises, beside coach procrastination. She has secreted a special spot for falling asleep, classifying it as another infamous case of yet another bizarre interlude, simply because she steps through this gateway rather exceptionally. She heard somewhere that suffering from insomnia changes your perception, that everything mingles together, that everything becomes a copy of a copy of a copy.

It forms enormous amounts of copies – remember that.

Someday it gets to the point where you own too many copies, and so you have no idea where to keep them. They lay sprawled across the floor, stack on your coffee table, clog the pipes, cover your bed along with every other furniture you own. They seem to possess your mind, gain control over every single idea, every single fiber of your body, as if intending to eat you from the inside, then mingle together as if they meant to make sure everything you manage to come up with would become another useless piece of garbage. 

And yet, they cram in your wardrobe just fine, making room for even more copies.

Copies are what has truly become her personal damnation.

Aside from that, it seems like she stands just at the Turning Point of her life, suspiciously long period depraved of any changes reassures her inkling’s veracity. The tension is so thick that any knife would glide smoothly through it, slicing the atmosphere into flawless pieces with smooth edges – perfect contrast for rigid shapes of variable life choices. She can safely assume that it is only a matter of time when the contents of her pot, so called life, will seethe on the sticky surface – the denouement that she is anticipating it more than she cares to admit, since everything has become so dull, and the copies do not fit anymore.

This is probably how the aftermath of dealing with the Devil should feel like.

Delirious.

Enticing.

And absolutely

Lethal.

Sometimes she wonders if meeting Eric has given her the privilege of gaining such a liberating experience. The day itself exuberated with rather crucial events, that peculiar kind of conclusion that was meant to blossom with time, exposing the enchantment of its phlox petals as their encounters began to pile up.

In accordance with the makeshift rule another illation is meant to hit her in due course, the illation that since day one she has pertained Eric Delmonte as The Man Who Sold the World.

* * *

Doxepin, also known by its market name Silenor, merges into the class of TCAs, short for tricyclic antidepressants. Its side effects might include delirium, orthostatic hypotension, and tinnitus, so in accordance to remain deprived of all these wonderful conditions, she flashes every leftover pill down the copy-clogged pipes.

The act itself feels like resurrection, no more dubious drugs, no more frustrations with their futility, no more incompetent doctors. She allows herself to imbibe the sensations, to become encompassed by the borne complacence, to intoxicate with the utter magnificence of her deed, since this is exactly what she craved all this time – to be free, not dazed, nevertheless ready to face the consequences of her choices, the fact that she might not be able to fall asleep soon. Still, compromise is the inherent part of life, its gray outmatches the surreal black and white – a mere delusion that these colors ever existed at all, that every single thing fits in one group only.

Deep in her post-flash reverie, she almost misses the ringing doorbell, cutting through the peaceful hum of passing cars. She huffs in annoyance, but pads to the door anyway, somehow curious about who decided to disturb her at such a late hour.

(“And tonight’s guest is…”)

Tonight’s guest looks akin to some fucking Rainbow of Depravation, out of all of the possible appellations this term is the first one that come to her mind as her scrutinizing gaze sweeps down his form. She is profoundly certain she has seen his face somewhere else, fluffy golden brown hair, piercing gemstone green of his irises, and this rare kind of visage that betrays no specific age – he might be her equal as well as ten years her senior and everything in between. On the top of it, he is wearing a Hawaiian shirt without making it look like a complete trash – that requires to be labeled as another rare ability.

“How can I help you?” She frowns, silently wishing him to be gone already. It has always amazed her that some people do not find such liberties offensive – to bother people after hours, when they are supposed to rest, not deal with unwanted guests.

“Well,” he clears his throat, getting rid of the tangy croakiness that reminds her of one peculiar 27 Club member. “I called you some time ago about that whole roommate concept, and you agreed to show me the flat to ‘straighten up all of the remaining formalities’, which, I believe, are the exact words you used, am I recalling correctly?”

Ah yes, of course. In face of all the excitement some indifferent meeting could have sipped her mind, and yet she is not in possession of the divine ability that allows her to pay the rent on time. It engenders her to form the only reasonable solution to avoid this rather unpleasant scenario, where she has to pack her bags and bid another unforgettable farewell to the fat owner – let’s go halves.

“Mister Delmonte, right?” She ascertains with a tad of incertitude lacing her voice. “You’ve got some, um… ID, driver license, or anything that is going to confirm that?”

He hums in agreement, handing her the requested plastic card, brushing her fingers, maybe by accident, with a gentle manner that catches her out of the guard for a brief moment. “Call me Eric,” he adds with a dashing smile that would probably distract her even further, if she wanted to. She has always been a strong believer that all self-control lays within our possession, unless we are secretly driven by the burning need to pass the button.

“Right, Eric,” she nods hesitantly as if testing how his name would sound, spoken by her silvery voice. “So Eric, would you like to come in and see the flat?”

“I think I would,” he smirks with a slight perk of his eyebrow as if it was some sort of challenge. “Lead the way then.”

As per his request, she steps aside, allowing him to walk through the threshold, and closes the door afterwards with a soft clicking noise that somehow startles her. Meeting new people has been an uncomfortable experience for her since ever, although she has learned to act as if the situation was right the opposite. Each time it leads her to the conclusion that society puts some kind of a pressure on every single person to exact certain behavioral patterns from our pathetically mangled specie.

As if it was possible.

“So as you may see, this is the living room”

(where dying is prohibited),

her broader-than-usual gesture encompasses the whole, relatively paltry area, stopping once she reaches the adjoining, compact kitchen. “Here, and nowhere else, is the space for all of your cooking related fantasies,” next, she points towards one of the three doors. “The bathroom,” another one, “and your bedroom.”

(so you won’t have an excuse to invade mine).

“Everything’s clear?”

“Crystal clear,” he flashes her another grin, thereby eliciting an unwitting smile from her for the very first time.

After all, Eric has always had a way to get under her skin.

* * *

She finds it utterly interesting, although still more than a tad bit unnerving, to observe how his stuff invade her space. It occurs to her for the first time when she steps in the bathroom this evening, only to find a single black eyeliner lying on the stall. He probably uses it to bring out the color of his eyes, or whatever people call it, to give them that peculiar smokiness, lacking in exaggeration, although noticeable from the close up. She has learned to associate it with him – the obscurity of the fuzzy line, mingling into an odd colocation that looks peculiarly decent on him.

Nevertheless, as soon as those couple of still seconds pass, her gaze adverts from the cylindrical object, aiming all the way up to the mirror, adorned with some kind of phlox neon that appears as a bizarre choice in the eyes of any others, while she, in turn, finds her solitude within the light. She studies her reflection, meeting her own eyes, their natural hue lost in the fluorescent lamp, although ever present in her mind. People tend to classify her irises as electrifying, their blue color lures the curious glances ever so often, standing out at the pale canvas of her face, adorned with a subtle spatter of greyish freckles, fitting quite well in the blonde’s complexion.

All of sudden something else catches her attention – Lobster Phone staring at her through the mirror. Deep down she knows what is about to happen, braces herself for the impact, for the terrifying noise to reverberate in the air, and yet the tingling ring still startles her, as per usual. She picks it up immediately, wanting to avoid hearing any more of the unpleasant sound, her hand trembling as she wraps the object within her grip.

“Hello, Hadlee,” his deep voice cuts through the air, soft baritone that she would find utterly pleasant in any other circumstances. “I was getting impatient, thought you’d never pick up.”

“And yet, I failed to disappoint you,” she responds with a tad of insincere nonchalance that she has grown accustom with over the past years. “What is it this time? Another condescending lecture, or is it meant to surprise me for a change?”

“Not many things surprise you these days,” he hints, his allusion hitting the nail on the head more precisely than she cares to admit. “You know, some painter once said…”  
“… from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity,” she finishes with a dash of annoyance that he is either not bothered by, or simply fails to notice.

“Exactly,” he beams with unmistakable content. “Which is why, you know-”

“We decay and then flowers invade our body, our senses, and we fall apart like everything else around us, I know,” she cuts him off again, wanting to get over with it as quick as possible, since she already knows all his profound answers.

(But then again…)

“But then again, within those flowers, our beauty is hidden, beauty that blossom with time, transforms, and becomes our idea – the ultimate essence of life, the idea that maintains through decades,” he counters, maybe just for the simply sake of opposing, she will never know.

“Although the essence,” she halts for a moment, giving him the taste of his own medicine, letting him know what it is like to anticipate something you are so certain about. “The essence is poisonous. It is damned, it gives you the knowledge but takes your well-being in return.”

“That is much more than correct,” he agrees, probably smiles even, since for some reasons, he has always thrilled on the faultless answers. “So would you like to give your knowledge back? Is it what you crave for? What would you become then?”

“I think you already know the answer,” she taunts for the last time, a meaningless sentence that is meant to cut off their talk, and lays the phone back on its stand with a terminal click. The Lobster Man exhausts her more than she cares to admit, her fatigue forms a transparent layer upon her cool skin, seeping into the flesh, as if in need to become another inherent part of her physique.

In attempt to bury this thought, deep, deep down, as if to deprive her from accessing its hideout, she steps out of the bathroom, making her way to the non-dying area of her flat, aggravated to find Eric already occupying the coach. He looks casually smooth, chilling on the meant-to-be plush furniture, with a few disheveled stands falling down his forehead, and what annoys her to the nth degree is, indeed, the aforementioned casual smoothness. He stares at the television screen through half lidded eyes as if he was moments away from dozing off, struggling to maintain the consciousness – a polar opposite for her personal endeavor.

Maybe this is why his persona aggravates her so much.

“You’re gonna just stand there, or are you actually planning to take a seat and stop acting like a fucking creep?” He huffs an annoyed breath, but still scoots away to make some place for her.

“You mean as usual,” she utters, not a question, but a statement.

“Yeah, this is exactly what I mean,” he jeers, although the irritation is rather quick to subside as his gaze lingers upon her cleavage, the fabric of her henley curving nicely around her breasts, the buttons left undone, exposing an extra stripe of creamy skin to his eyes.

Endearing,

Yet

Entropically

Sinister.

Since day one she has suspected that what truly drives them together is some kind of darkness that remains hidden in the backs of their minds, stacked somewhere deep down, but still threating to seep through the pores. She finds herself willing get to know his motive, although still aware that the feeling is mutual, which brings an involuntary association to her relationship with the Lobster Man, where both of them are as thick as thieves, no secrets left behind, although perceiving it in such way is not entirely faultless.

However, during their time off on the sofa, she realizes that she is genuinely interested in what he has to offer. He is and odd paradox, consisting of an extroverted disposition, desire to express himself freely, and yet a few manners that he has grown accustomed with seem to mold into some kind of a vaster, more complex act. 

The exercise of reading people’s minds has always been something she thrills on, something that brings utter and undisputable sense of satisfaction, the one that she craves more than anything. Over the years, she noticed that a lot of said Earth’s inhabitant tend to do leak, forget to shield certain features from the eyes of others. They either do not care (their stupidity and immaturity plays a major part in this case), or are not aware of how much they expose to those who possess that blissful knowledge of where to look. Eric, in turn, seems to have mastered the art of creating a perfect illusion, a flawless façade that consist of precisely balanced amounts of veracity and feint, so to eliminate the threat of losing himself within the act.

Magnificent.

“Care to go out tonight?” He suggests, completely out of thin air, catching her attention that stirs her glance towards his profile. In passing, she notices that his nose would be perfectly even if the tip was not tilted downwards, but on the other hand it would somehow ruin his image, and being honest here, she prefers him this way.

“Well,” she pretends to think it over for a brief moment as if it would anyhow help her avoid fueling his temerity, but still, it might be the only way to get Lobster Man out of her mind. “Why not?”

“I keep asking myself that question too.”

* * *

The nearest subway station is ordinary crowded tonight, although most of the passengers tend to leave rather than join. Some people would find the prospect of sitting alone on the platform utterly nerve-wracking, but she, again in turn, joins the society’s opposition, viewing said outcome as something anticipating, something she wants to let into her life.

And yet, Eric prevents it just right.

“Where are we going?” Her voice mingles with the roar of the passing train, and although he could easily let her question slide by, pretending to never hear it, he decides to answer this time, but not to please her with an actual information – how classy.

“You’ll see when the time comes,” he muses with some kind of a sham darkness lacing his voice, the one that she has been associating with him since he moved in with her. Sometimes, she wonders to which extent all of these expressions can be labeled within the category of thespian performances.

“That sounds a little bit dramatic,” she smirks – a distant smile that he has been associating with her since he moved in to the flat. “And a little bit like a threat.”

“Maybe it is a threat,” he leans in close enough to brush her shoulder, his breath hot atop the skin of her neck, its gentle breeze causes her to shiver slightly – an innate jerk that does not slip past his attention. The awareness of his subtle influence over her has always been something that pleases his dominating nature, considering her usual cool impassivity. “Maybe I’m planning to take you somewhere where-”

“You could kill me?” She interrupts with a sarcastic inquiry.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Something like that.”

His last words mingle with the approaching train’s whiz that slices through the air akin to some blunt knife accompanied by a coarse screech – the noise that resembles the unpleasantness of a piece of chalk grinding against a blackboard. As if on a command, they both rise from their previous seat and cross the gap within rather short amount of time, swiftly taking their newest places in the dilapidated tramcar. 

Having grown accustom with the inglorious space, her eyes glide past the graffiti scribbles marking the walls, most of them written in a fuzzy manner, as if hindering any correct perception of said creations. This peculiar form of art has always been a part she associates with some kind of momentum work, at least if we are focusing on the letterings only, a quick way to express what is on artist’s mind now and maybe never again. It is beautiful, it is fleeting, it is eternal – an image captured within a time loop, never meant to leave the tramcar, yet withstanding it like a banding pine that is never meant to reach the cracking point – a word, a message carried with the passing people.

“Have you ever tried not setting a specific goal for yourself?” He glances towards her profile, making sure she is listening to him, even if partly. “Simply walk out of the house, not with a particular destination in mind, but to find one?”

“If your assumption carries a direct meaning, then the answer is yes.”

(Someone once taught her not to play with open cards.)

“And if not?”

“Then my answer remains the same,” she smiles with a slight tilt of her eyebrow, waiting for the next question, the question that never comes, substituted with another of his viewpoints. If she wanted to be honest with herself, she would admit that there is something appealing about listening to his talks, especially during one of those mutually sleepless nights when he joins her on the sofa and rambles about life.

“I think that, um…” he interrupts with a soft click of his tongue, something he tends to do quite often these days when he forgets how to mold his thoughts into sentences. “That you would find it helpful to ease your mind sometimes, let your thoughts flow freely, achieve some kind of inner peace – the catharsis as some people like to call it.”

“It’s a curse,” she sighs, eyes glued to the arch of a letter ‘h’ – the one that is the beginning of a different, rather funny word. “Thinking too much. It’s like coming across a hare while walking through woods. First it picks up you interest, so you follow the animal wherever it’s heading. But when the time comes, you realize that you’re lost, that you have no idea where to find your house.”

“It depends on your outlook,” he interferes, as always, maybe even for a simple sake of said activity, she will never know. “Maybe the haze will lead you somewhere else, maybe there’s something unexpected waiting for you, something interesting, something that’ll change you perception about certain aspects of life.”

“But are we willing to take the risk?” She ponders, lips laced with another fleeting smile that makes her appear somehow carefree, even if for an equally fleeting moment.

“Tell me, Hadlee,” he drags out her name, probably for some extra suspense, but the odd throw in and even odder manner of speaking , brings her the association of Lobster Man, someone she never dared to link with Eric. 

(Yeah, sure.)

Come to think of it now, their behavior tends to liken in certain cases, which is not a pleasant discovery. “What is the point of asking a question if you already know the answer?”

* * *

Over the course of time, it is quite facile to notice how much people love to speak – another common trait of our specie. To get things straight, it is not the act of talking that she finds this unpleasant, rather mindless babbling – no effort, no commitment, no massage – careless words spoken without any kind of concept. In addition, almost every single passerby somehow seems to fall into the makeshift category, their words completely out of context for her perception, talking about things that are completely foreign to her, beyond her interest.

And yet, she is listening.

Since ever, she has associated passersby with constant movement – the change of environmental factors – something she craves regardless of any personal anxiety, since transformation somehow becomes surprisingly fine coping mechanism, transition from one alternative to another. It never ceases to amaze her how many seemingly variable personalities exist within one person, but she never regarded that they maintain separate from each other, rather dwell in some kind of odd correlation. Naturally, she has been considering another change for quite a while, and tonight is the night when she is planning to act on it, when she oversteps past the invisible border that does not allow withdrawing before purchasing. 

“C’mon, which one?” He hustles her, drumming his fingers against the metal rack – another clear sign of his impatience, if vexed huffs of breath were not enough. 

“This one,” she raises a box to provide him some better view, and he flippantly snatches it from her hand, frowning as he eyes the label. Being honest here, she knew from the very begging which color to pick, yet she cannot deny herself the pleasure of pushing his buttons at any given possibility.

“Really?” His eyebrow perks up in gesture that betrays his skepticism. “I mean, whatever, see if I care.”

“You should,” she smiles with some newfound mischief dancing within her eyes. “Because you’re gonna be dyeing them.”

“Lee,” she purses her lips at the nickname, pretty much aware of the fact he is using it on purpose, knowing the effect it has on her. “I feel like you’re putting too much pressure on me, if you expect it to come out any good.”

However, her response it not something he has expected, the way she laughs, a pearly chuckle that for whatever reasons reminds him of Tammy, but he is quick to push that notion away. Come to think of it, he tends to question the veracity of said events quite frequently, the events that allow him to compare her with Hadlee.

“We’ll see when the time comes.”

* * *

The evening air is crispy, chilly upon any exposed parts of his flesh, yet he finds that there is something enticing about the way it tickles his skin. It brings him back to the old times, to the paradox of his prior existence – being free yet trapped, although his cage was not made out of gold.

It was russet, however galvanized with platinum. 

He is quick to shake out of the reminiscence, and glances towards Hadlee, lured by the rhythmical click of her boots against the tiles, eyes skimming past her profile just to get back on their previous track a brief moment later – staring in the distance. Over the past few months, he has come to the conclusion that there has to be something odd about Hadlee, something that does not fit, something that partly concerns him, since they have been living together throughout all those weeks. It is not entirely about the sleeping problems, but more about the hunch that her insomnia hides something more sinister – the Grand Issue, or worse – that she has seen right though his polished disguise.

Probably yes, but there still remains a question: how much is she able to figure out on her own?

Another aspect that he finds quite important to consider, when it comes to Hadlee, is his attraction towards her, not only on the physical level. Although he sincerely doubts that he is capable of falling in love with anyone, even her, he somehow esteems her presence in his life which is a rare trait to label people with, at least for him. As a matter of fact, he perceives their relationship in terms of abnormal, comparing to his previous ones, since, despite the amount of time they have spent under one roof, it still remains unconsumed. 

Of course he has already formed a bunch of theories on why that aspect occurs when it comes to their relationship, the most probable explanation is mainly connected with defining terminal factors. Truth to be told, he purposely keeps it unresolved because of his previous experiences: usually sex was all people could offer him, since meeting anyone truly interesting was almost like capturing a white raven, and so he is afraid that this is what might end their mutual fascination. 

However, it still leaves a bunch of matters pending, such as why it would change his outlook on Hadlee, or that he might have missed more simplistic solution, considering his obvious tendency to lose himself in trying to look at all different aspects of certain situation.

Maybe there is no pertinent explanation?

“Penny for your thoughts?” She shakes him of the complexity of his considerations, her voice oddly melodic on the empty streets. It once occurred to him that she could be an excellent chansonnière, although he gave up that idea even quicker than it invaded his mind. Maybe he just misses those times when he was a boy, settled on the kitchen stool anytime his mum was making casserole, humming to the tune of her favorite songs.

“You’re mocking me again, aren’t you?” He questions with a fake accusatory tingle that she finds someway funny.

“Why do you think you have any right to accuse me of committing such a horrible crime?” She replies with reminiscent hint – truly an act of great performance.

“Because you don’t say shit like that,” he states, flashing her one of his signature glances – it feels stupid to be force to explain anything of that nature to you.

“Fine, maybe a little bit,” she interrupts herself with a pearly chuckle. “So what’s the answer?”

“The answer is nothing that should concern you,” he retorts, absolutely positive that sharing those remarks with her is the least sensible thing he could do. “It’s nothing personal, Hadlee.”

“It’s perfectly fine, I get it,” she shrugs with a brief smirking crossing her features, as if wanting to make sure she would not be misunderstood by restricting only to the verbal aspect of communication, forgetting what lays beyond words.

This is an excellent question – what remains hidden within even the simplest of words, as her Lobster Man would have said.

But he does not, and she sincerely hopes he never will.

* * *

Her eyes remain glued to him, watching the process of mixing all the components inside a plastic bowl, as if she wanted to verify whether he is capable of getting it right. His hands look odd, clad in latex gloves, as if he was some kind of a professional hairdresser that has undoubtedly mastered the art of hair-dyeing over the years, which actually lays further from the truth than she is ready to admit.

They have already gone through the sectioning process, since she pushed him to ‘do something right for once in his miserable life’, and he complied with a vexed huff of breath. Now, she is settled on the bar stool that they have brought from the kitchen to make the whole process more convenient for both of them, stealing glances at her reflection from time to time.

“So how do you want it?” He spins around to face her, lying a single hand on top of her exposed shoulder, the heat of his skin creating a pleasant contrast in comparison with the coolness of her flesh.

“I thought we’re already past that point,” she rolls her eyes, uttering another irritated huff under her breath. She had no idea that dealing with Eric’s dyeing process would cost her so much nerves, but on the other hand it is Eric, so what was she actually expecting? 

“Well, I wasn’t listening, and according to what you’ve said earlier, that’s my only chance to do something right in my miserable life, so please, enlighten me with your indisputable knowledge.”

“That’s not much of a surprise, the fact that you weren’t listening,” she spats in response. “Again, just the roots, about an inch and a half.”

“Just the roots, fine,” he murmurs, scooping a rather big portion of purple liquid with his fingers, just about to plop it on the top of her head.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” She fusses, the horrified timbre within her voice guaranteed to make him laugh. “Use the brush, we bought it for a fucking reason.”

“Right,” he fishes out said item, wiggling it in front of the mirror for a brief moment, probably just to irk her further. “The mighty brush.”

She watches him with a hint of nervousness hidden behind her gaze, flinching when she feels the moist touch on the top of her head. He spreads the dye around as if he was painting on a blank canvas, rather than dyeing hair, but he is quick to add a few corrections, covering the strand more evenly. His movements appear a bit more deliberate now, much less jerky than she expected them to be, which gives her a soothing, although evidently short-lived, impression that he has an idea of what he is performing atop her head. 

“Try to blend it a little bit,” she implies, eyes still warily following the swipes of his brush. “I mean with the blonde, so the cut won’t be so... you know, cut.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he scoffs dismissively. “I bet you have even less experience when it comes to dyeing hair, so I think it’d be a way more sensible to cut that little, condescending crusade.”

“You think so?” Her eyebrow perks up, as if in astonishment. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” He flashes her a blatant smirk, although she finds herself not caring about his typically conceited behavior at this point.

“Wanna know what is even more interesting?” She asks, quick to answer the question, absolutely blowing off the pretending-to-wait-for-his-verbal-consent part. “Just how you can’t handle at least a bit of a fucking blending with you being the expert in every single field imaginable.”

“We shall see about this, Lee,” he mutters under his breath. “We shall see.”

* * *

Several dozens of minutes later, she settles on the bar stool once more with Eric standing behind her, his hands again finding their place atop her exposed shoulders. She is much aware of his tendencies to maintain physical contact with people – one of many ways to hold some odd kind of power over them – and would lie if she said that it is not the main reason why she prefers to avoid touching others in the first place.

However, this time they have gathered here to examine the results, not to ponder about all the aspects of physical contact. Despite the obviously dim bathroom lighting, she lifts the top part of her hair, checking for any missed blonde spots, although she is much aware of the fact that she will have to repeat it in the morning to affirm anything significant.

“To be honest,” she frowns, examining the strands slipping past her fingers . “I thought it’d suck a way more, but actually it hasn’t turned that bad.”

“Told you so,” he shrugs, flashing her a scornful glare through the mirror. “And you know, some fucking gratitude would be… pretty nice, actually,” he points out, the corners of his lips lifting for the slightest as if he found her amusing, although she is meant to understand the veritable faces of his amusement in due course.

“You know,” she interrupts with a soft click of her tongue – another manner that she has probably picked up from him. “Since there are no words to express my extreme gratitude for your actions, I’ve decided to skip this part, because I think it would be disrespectful to… what the fuck am I talking about?”

“I ask myself that question every day, Hadlee,” he huffs with a seemingly disrespectful smirk enlightening his face.

“Well, the feeling is mutual,” she smiles, ignoring the bitter tone of his voice.

“Delightful,” he grins, genuinely this time, his following words proving the veracity of said implication. “But what’s even more delightful is that I’m leaving you here to your own company.”

“Well, the feeling is mutual,” she mimics his expression – a rare sight when it comes to her, since, at least according to his perception, she is the last person who copies anyone’s anything. “And where are you going, if I may ask?”

“To the land of Nod, I guess,” he shrugs carelessly, an odd, seemingly apologetic, smile igniting his face for a brief moment.

“Then that’s, indeed…” she halts, as if searching for better collocations to express what is on her mind. “As you said, truly delightful.”

And yet, she is never meant to find out the exact meaning of said words.

At least according to her perception.

* * *

The concept of frequent habits has always been something that unnerves him, upsets to the nth degree, makes him feel trapped in day-to-day reality

(as if it was not virtual),

which lead to the obvious conclusion that he has never considered an attempt to form any. However, every exception proves the rule and this case is no different, but Eric would most likely be the first one to deny it, while neatly folding his clothes to prevent them looking as if they were chewed by a dog. Habits are like chains, hooking us to one and one variant only, until we become unable to accomplish the task any other way, to get through the day despite skipping certain actions, but still, it is impossible to fight them all – a mere, meaningless pursuit.

He often dwells upon its veracity, upon the veracity in general, while standing in the dark, taping the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray. He heard once that we are unable to give up addictions, that we only fool ourselves by replacing it with another one, less deadly maybe, although this matter is fairly disputable.

(Why can’t we fly away like the condors?)

(She would like that question, wouldn’t she?)

Having ascertained that the smoldering of the ember has completely subsided, he plops down onto the mattress, sleepily tangling his limbs in the sheets. Their cool fabric feels nice against his heated skin, their silky textures pleasant to touch as he tosses and turns a couple of times in search for the most comfortable position. In the end, he opts for his stomach, nuzzling the pillow as he gradually drifts off, the noises of the city dulling to a monotonous hum.

A lot of people tend to associate sleep with death for whatever reasons – an eternal dream, last sleep, or whatever they like to call it. Does that make them feel better, to think that it is all like falling asleep, except this time they are never meant to wake up, at least in their beds like any other day?

(“To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep.”)

To fool?

Futile.

Obligatory

Omnipotent

Lie.

Already rather deep in his slumber, it is not much of a surprise that a soft creek of hinges does not bother him for the slightest, only has him snuggling further into the silky fabric. What eventually creates an abrupt shift in this situation is a cautious joggle of his arm that brings him back to where he truly is, laying on the bed. He groans in annoyance, evading his eyelids for the minimum, just to allow himself to see what is going on. 

He is greeted by the sight of Hadlee sitting on the edge of his mattress, bathed in the cold city lights, obtaining this particular sinister look that never fails to throw him out of the guard, even if for a brief moment. Truth to be told, he has managed to associate her with more entities and aspects than he cares to mention, than it is healthy to do so. Maybe it is a fixation, obsession, addiction, another replacement for Tammy, or maybe right the opposite – beginning, resurrection, reclamation… 

Someday, he would love to find the real answer.

(Even though absolutes are nonexistent.)

He was more than aware that she would come, considering the fact that he has no idea when was the last time she slept, like really slept, not napped for a couple hours. Over the course of time he has noticed that it is much easier for her to fall asleep when she is accompanied by someone – a rather common trait when it comes to certain people, especially the ones with aforementioned issues. He has never made a big deal out of it, since he knows she hates when someone does so, and as a matter of fact he does not mind her here, even if through the prism of practical aspects.

Without a word, he scoots over, letting her lay down next to him, accompanied by a subtle creak of the mattress springs. She clearly takes her time, tossing at turning for the seemingly endless amount of times, until she settles on her back, more or less mirroring his position.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” she mutters, her eyes glued to a small spot on the celling; it has always reminded her of a bird.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he shakes his head slightly, glancing at her for a mere second, as if to acknowledge the veracity of his words. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

“That’s good, I guess,” she turns onto the side to face him, or rather face his profile, fingers mindlessly reaching out to touch his arm, brushing the skin in an almost teasing manner. She traces the lines of his tattoo that forms a ring around his bicep, its wavy pattern is what she has always found fascinating. The design reminds her of this early eighteenth century woodblock print from Japan, but unfortunately the artist’s name has slipped her mind. “I don’t want to invade your privacy or anything-” 

“Ask away,” he shrugs in a careless manner – a gesture that she consistently associates with him and his innate nonchalance. “I’ll tell you, if it’s gonna be too D-day for me.”

“Sure you will,” she huffs, rolling her eyes at his blatant implication. “Anyway, my question refers to the tattoo-”

“Just ask the question, Lee,” he hastens impatiently, much to her annoyance.

“Does it mean anything?” She ignores the sharp tone of his voice, half-consciously lying her head on his shoulder, searching for some more heat. Since the very begging of their sleeping encounters, she has noticed how warm he is every single time, at least comparing to her, despite being shirtless and surrounded by the cool air.

“Nah, I like it because it looks cool,” he counters immediately as if he found the correction of her mistaken conviction to be fairly important. “Maybe it’s not a common practice, but I don’t like to label my tattoos with meanings in case I might want to forget them. Take, for instance, those couples with matching tattoos. They break up and what?” He glares at her for a brief moment, as if making sure she is listening. “Or a certain date. Maybe you wouldn’t want to remember it in a few years, maybe it would trigger you to see it every day in the mirror?”

Instead of bestowing him with a verbal answer, she opts for laying in silence for the next few following minutes. His arm encircles her frame to make the position more convenient for both of them, since keeping his limb sprawled straight on the mattress feels kind of uncomfortable, his eyes closing on their own will. However, as soon as their breathing tempos begin to match, she speaks again, her voice pleasantly melodic within the quiet room.

“Why are we here, Eric?”

“What kind of answer are you expecting from me?” He yawns, not quite bothering to open his eyes this time.

“Eric!” She turns on her stomach to face him, slapping his chest with just a little force, but enough to coax him to open his eyes. “What kind of answer will you give me?”

“Because we don’t have a choice, because it was made for us,” he snorts, rather annoyed with her attentive gesture. “Kind of cruel, isn’t it? But I believe we have to live up to it, to make it worth living, right?”

“Yeah, right,” she nods hesitantly. “It just feels weird sometimes, you know, as if we had no place, no purpose, as if all we were doing was floating with no particular destination in mind, because in the end, there isn’t any. It probably sounds foolish when I spell it out like this, but well, what if I’m not able to improve it?”

“Then let be, Hadlee,” he sighs, his eyes falling shut again. “Let it be.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” she huffs, irritated by the dismissive act.

“Well,” he halts for a mere moment as if to irk her further. “Thoughtful is what I am.”

“Right,” she acknowledges, her voice laced with this peculiar discreetly sarcastic tingle that he never fails to notice. “Thoughtful is what you are.”

According to what her mother used to say, thoughtfulness is a rare trait, a rich wine that comes with age, with experience, the one that you have to seek out yourself. Nevertheless, she believes it is rather disputable, whether she was right or wrong, considering that everything is eventual, not defined; blurred, not sharp.

And we have to live up to it.

* * *

The first thing to distinguish within the compact room, even before opening his eyes, is how heavy the air feels like with every inhale. Its smokiness tickles his nostrils, and he suppresses the urge to sneeze or even cough, covering his nose with the back of his hand. It is an odd sensation, the one that he troubles to recognize, and so associate with anything, until his eyelids fall open, involuntarily taking in the surroundings.

He cannot help but smirk into the darkness.

Here again, same old shit.

Of course, the blinders are closed, since she is probably unable to stand any more light. Sometimes he just wants her to die already, because she dulls him, manipulates him to stay, brings him to hit the bottom with her and makes sure he will never rebound. There is nothing she enjoys more than dragging people down with her, he has always known that, and yet he hangs out with her as if in need to find out what lies there.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Her words violate the peaceful silence, slicing through it akin to a sharp knife that tears painful words from its throat.

“What sucks?” He inquires, previously painted screams dulling as he speaks, until they quiet down to the point where he can barely hear them

(quiet like whispers).

“That you prefer her over me,” she sighs, drawing her knees closer to his chest, as if she tried to prevent any physical contact between them.

“Not everything always has to go your way,” he shrugs with a fake apologetic smile plastered to his face, completely out of place.

“But it makes me feel so left out, you know,” she pouts, for some reasons thinking he would buy it, despite his rather obvious aversion towards pouting girls.

“And I find myself not caring anymore,” he chuckles bitterly.

“What happened, Eric?” She asks with a hint of concern lacing her voice, that godawful voice he was forced to be listening to throughout his teenage years. “What does she have that I don’t have?”

“She lifts me up,” he smiles distantly, as if occupied by some pleasant memories. “While you only used to bring me down.”

“But we were so good together,” she reasons, although it is not much of a surprise that he will not even attempt to consider it – too many associations with all those whiny tantrums Tammy used to throw anytime they were out of crack.

“Yeah, it always feels good not to be trapped alone in our own miseries, to take someone else in, to share our experiences, because it makes us think that we’re still worthy, that everyone can fall like we have.”

“You know what I like to tell myself?” She sighs, her eyes fall open, now staring into the darkness. “That I’m still worthy. That I’m still worthy, because even though you think so big of her, you still come back here as if you were looking for a missing piece of puzzle that has been lying right here for the whole time, as if-”

“I think-”

“Admit it,” she interrupts him, gradually growing more and more irritated with his blunt behavior. “The whole rehab was just a scam. You’re still thinking about it, always sniffing for crack like a filthy fucking dog, because this is what you are,” she chuckles bitterly, breathing each word into his ear. “Filthy. Fucking. Dog.”

“Whatever, Tammy,” he shrugs as if all he ever wanted was to ignore her, to irk her until she would throw him out of the house, out of her life. “Remember what you told me on our last meeting?”

She shakes her head in response, adverting her gaze from the stained curtains, closing her eyes once more.

(We’re out of crack, Eric, again, so stop bitching and go get some more.)

“That you have no idea what you’re doing, that all you ever wanted was to be free.”

She only keeps staring at him, speechless, as if waiting for his next move, wondering what it might be.

“Tell me something,” he speaks, already past the point of caring to wait for her response. “Are you still alive in the real world?”

“Wake up and find out,” she laughs, her head lulling drowsily to the side.

“You know what? ” He pretends to ponder it for a brief moment, since any extra suspense tends to work for the better in this world. “I think I’ll pass.”

* * *

Everything is empty, the whole place as if floating in the air, only floor left to support her feet. It feels as if she has been walking straight ahead for a very long time, years maybe, which is most likely just another false belief, and yet she finds herself holding onto it. She once came to the conclusion that it is induced by our desperate need to perceive certain aspects as true, create an illusionary world for ourselves where we know exactly what to believe in.

At some point, not sure when precisely, she comes across something rather bizarre – two red, leather-upholstered armchairs, facing each other. She hesitantly encircles them, wanting to make sure whether they are occupied or not, and yet the sight of him startles her to the point where she utters a quiet gasp.

“Hello, Hadlee,” he greets with this peculiar kind of refinement lacing his voice, the one that unnerves her more than anything. “I’ve been waiting for you, again. You like to leave me hanging, don’t you? Like this guy… what was his name? Edwin?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she shakes her head, somehow uncomfortable with the idea of talking about Eric.

“Oh, it does,” he sound a little overexcited, cheerful even, and for obvious reasons it does not stifle her restlessness. “Don’t you want to correct me?”

“Not today,” she chuckles, as if meaning to cover her nervousness – another futile attempt in the face of Lobster Man. “Better tell me why you’re wasting my time. Again.”

“Harsh words, darling,” he shakes his head in amusement – something she is much aware of, although unable to perceive. “Harsh words.”

“Then what’s the point of our conversations, if we both know how they’re gonna turn out?” She inquires rhetorically, sarcastically even, the familiar feeling of utter impatience that she associates with him and him only already getting under her skin.

“Why do you keep coming back here then?” He asks, his voice laced with this awfully typical condescending patience – always a perfect contrast for her.

“Because you keep summoning me?” She counters, somehow feeling bold enough to look into his eyes for the first time, but she is quick to discover that his face is hidden in the dark. Of course, it would be too simple, lacking in essential drama to reveal his secret like this.

“Nah,” he denies with a click of his tongue – the mannerism that reminds her of Eric and Eric only, which is kind of creepy when she thinks of it this way. “You think I have any real power over you, or even over this world?”

“How am I supposed to rely on your claims?” She laughs in disbelief. “Is this some sort reverse psychology, or-”

“Not this time,” he assures as if he really aimed for convincing her to accept this matter as another permanent truth, the truth that exists only within this world. “You created me, remember? You created me when he died-”

“Don’t you dare-”

“When you left home, when you needed some company during all those sleepless nights,” he continues his little speech, downright ignoring her attempts to interrupt him. “You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you? From time to time, while you’re lying alone in the dark, he invades your mind, like a disease, but he never speaks. Why can’t he speak? Why?”

“Because he’s dead, that’s why,” she huffs, wanting to cover the hint of trepidation hidden within her voice.

“Come again, darling?”

“He can’t talk because he’s dead,” she repeats, this time putting less effort to cover up the truth, considering it as another vain effort, since he already knows all of her struggles and vice versa. “Because dead people don’t talk.”

“Then how come I speak, if I’m nothing more than another non-existent, make-believed creation of your half-conscious brain?” He inquires further as if he found it amusing to push her buttons and see if, or rather when, she will break.

Good question, she thinks, although entirely pointless. It never ceased to amaze her how he was able to put so much effort in saying something that has already been said, not verbally, but it does not change the fact that they are familiar with what is about to happen as if they were staring in some grotesque kind of play, finally ready to put out a performance after so many rehearsals.

“Because you’re still alive, here, in my mind,” she explains the obvious, and yet she does not mind it this time – something entirely new for her, a resurrection. “You know, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I could, if I had-” 

(a gun)

“Oh.”

“You think you’re able to do it?” He taunts sardonically. “What if it’s terminal, what if you won’t ever find a way to bring me back once you-”

“Honestly,” she lifts the metallic object, testing its weight in her hand, fingers stroking the surface, as if it was all an act of utter glorification, the one that is supposed to work for the greater good. “I hope it works like this.”

“Is it a farewell then?” He asks, maybe the last question that is ever meant to slip past his lips, at least in hopes that she is not mistaken on this one.

“Do you want it to be?” She smiles for the last time, as if attempting to be considered as more noble than sinister, before she finally pulls the trigger, sealing the deal, hopefully once and for all, accompanied by its terminal sound echoing in the distance.

Because it is

Allowed in here and

Nothing short of

Graceful.

* * *

“Jesus fucking Christ!” She wakes up with an utterly indiscreet scream bubbling from her throat, involuntarily jerking away from the embrace, almost falling on the floor from the force of it.

“It’s just Eric,” he baits in amusement, eyeing her disheveled form for a brief moment. His glare skims past her bare legs, the sliver of denuded stomach where the fabric has ridden up high enough to expose her panties, all the way up to her indignant face.

“I can’t be believe you just checked me out like this,” she huffs, covering herself with a harsh tug of the fabric.

“Take it as a compliment,” he shrugs, before downing the remains of his whiskey in one gulp, quick to settle the glass on the nightstand. He frowns at the burning sensation blossoming within his throat, the one that is soon to subside into pleasant warmth, his tongue slipping past his bottom lip to catch the remaining drops of liquor.

Maybe he should seize the moment, considering he has no idea when the next one will occur, considering he is fed up with pretending he allows her to doze here just because he is a good guy, with pretending that it does not affect him when she moans or subtly grinds against him as she shifts in her sleep.

Sometimes, they wake up tangled in the sheets with her practically lying on top of him, pressed subtly against his groin, just enough to tease him, but not give any real relief. He never took advantage of her in this particular state – asleep, vulnerable, barely able to get a sense of what is going on around her, not just because it would lack in her verbal consent, but also because it would be no fun to nail anyone this way, at least for him. Being honest here, he has finally gotten fed up with putting it off for such a long time, considering that there were plenty occasions to coax her into performing anything significant with him, and that it indeed seems like a perfect moment to do so.

“Come here,” he suggests abruptly, motioning her with a flick of his wrist. She complies, as if caught in some sort of a trance, taking a sit on the spot beside him, cross-ledged, weight supported by her forearms. “Bad dream?”

“More or less,” she shrugs dismissively, her eyes glued to his hands working on pouring a two-finger amount of liquid into the previously abandoned glass.

“Here,” he passes it towards her, nudging her free hand with the object, probably by accident. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t drink,” she refuses with a slight shake of her head. To be honest, drinking has never been quite her beloved activity, if not entirely unpleasant, so it will not be much of a surprise if she gets tipsy rather quickly.

“C’mon, I’m not trying to get you drunk,” he coaxes, a brief smirk dancing upon his lips, as the glass slips into her right hand. She accepts it unintentionally, maybe to avoid any alcohol stains on the sheets, as if just about to set it aside. “Just loosen you up, okay? That’s not enough to make anyone drunk, trust me.”

Somehow, she does not trust him. It is not even in consideration of this whole alcohol matter, but about what lays deeper – an inkling that he is up to something, that it is all just an excuse to push her into committing to an act that she will regret later on. In other hand, she has always been quite of a paranoiac, so there are times when she ignores her surmise, since it might be an exaggeration, especially when the fixation becomes a bit unhealthy. However, in this case, despite being almost certain about the veracity of said hunch, she wants to give it a try, maybe out of simple curiosity, to see what lays hidden within the depths of his mind.

So she downs the drink.

Like a seasoned pro, she thinks ironically.

But that was before the burning sensation begins to blossom within her throat, forcing a choked cough to escape past her lips. Her face scrunches in disgust as she swallows the remaining substance, previously lingering upon her tongue, and lets out a final wheeze, much to his amusement. He stares at her, not even bothering to hide the fact that he enjoys seeing her in this state – disheveled, taken aback, and grossed out.

“Delightful,” she spats bitterly, setting the glass on a nightstand with a clink that betrays her annoyance. “Now what? Gonna cradle me upon your lap, and whisper some pointless crap into my ear until I fall asleep?”

“Not exactly,” he shakes his head slightly, accompanied by a soft click of his tongue. “But there’s one question that I’ve been burning to ask you for quite some time now.”

“What’s the question then?” She inquires further, much aware of how essential it is when it comes to Eric.

“When was the last time you had sex?” He asks, abruptly, completely out of blue, enough to throw her out of the guard for more than just a brief moment.

“Eric, what the fuck?” She is quick to scoot away from him, at least as far as the mattress allows it, but he grabs her wrist, firmly holding her in place, yet careful not to hurt her.

“I’m just curious, you know,” he shrugs with a carelessness that makes her blood boil hot. “You’ve been quite tensed lately.”

“Well, curiosity killed the cat,” she spats in response, yanking her wrist away from him, and this time he lets go, both of them already aware that she is not planning on going anywhere. “Isn’t it what they say?”

“Too long, huh?” He ignores her snide remark, completely unbothered by the fact that it is fairly inappropriate to push her boundaries like this. Without giving her a chance to come up with anything sensible to say, he leans in, his breath winding through her hair as he speaks. “Or were they just too paltry? Didn’t manage scratch that itch, did they?” 

Despite his rather clear demand for response, she finds herself unable to do so as his scent flares through her nostrils, delicately stimulating her senses, coaxing her to take a single inhale, a little deeper than usually. It recalls her to something distinctive, something she has felt before, but cannot link with anything specific, her mind completely blank when it comes to certain associations. He smells like some rich perfumes, but the scent is lingering, not pungent, since it was probably applied a good couple of hours ago, maybe a little like resin, or more woody with an seemingly odd hint of freshness.

Nevertheless, it ignites something within her, something that is utterly innate, laced with primal lust, and all she wants is more.

“Answer me, Hadlee,” he spurs with his face just inches away from hers, although kissing her on the lips is not his direct intention, rather something that he would like to save for later.

“Yeah,” she gasps as his lips tease the pleasantly sensitive flesh behind her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. He seems unusually gentle – a trait she would never consider to associate with him – as if cautious not to scare her away with too demanding touches. “More or less.”

“More or less, huh?”

If she wanted to be honest with herself, she would admit that putting out fire with gasoline is always a terrible idea.

However, she does not find it necessary at the moment, especially when he trails a bunch of soft kisses down her neck, sucking every once in a while in hope to exact a different kind of reaction from her – a moan maybe. She unintentionally leans back, exposing more of her neck to him, silently wishing he will continue, surprisingly so, even for her, and yet she greets the following line of touches with a sigh of relief that encourages him to drive it a little further.

But he has something else on his mind.

Abruptly, his movements come to a halt, much to her disappointment, although he is quick to replace them with something else, something that sends a pang of lust directly to her core – a kiss, a graceful coalescence of their lips that elicits a trembling breath from Hadlee. Her heart begins flutter in her chest in time with the teasing caress, arms encircling his neck to bring him a little closer, caused by a simple urge of more physical contact, since it does not change the fact that the kneeling is a rather inconvenient. 

He seems to feel the same about it, since it does not take long for him to grip her waist and tug her by the arms, coaxing Hadlee to sit on his lap, palms instantly flying forward to support her weight with a tight grip on his shoulders. She wriggles in his hold, as if testing her current position, while his hands, in turn, find their place atop her hips, slowly guiding her down to settle flush against his thigh. Its taut muscle applies the tiniest bit of pressure on her slick folds, drawing a quiet gasp from her parted lips, as her hips buckle instinctively in search for some friction. 

All of sudden, she wants to get rid of the troublesome barrier that is her underwear, she really does, and yet, she cannot find the will to depart for him, or maybe just to expose herself like this in front of him. She is afraid it will make her vulnerable, push her into his trap where he is the one who calls all the shots, who uses her for his very own pleasure, who fucks her as if she was nothing more than a cheap whore. It might sound ridiculous but it is a common trait of every anxiety, the one that is laced with no particular reason, just the merest inkling holding more power over her than she is willing to devote.

However, her inhibitions are quick to be lost as she resumes her earlier activity, with a little more confidence this time, knowing more than less what to do. She is surprised to see how much she craves the constant stimulation, since her previous experiences have not taught her that. 

Come to think of it, she does not carry any fond memories of the previous encounters, so it is not much of a surprise that she has never considered sex in terms of essential life factor. They were all pretty much the same, a little dull, and most importantly did not result in a certain completion which becomes rather frustrating after a few times. 

She has always thought that faking an orgasm is nonsensical in its entirety, since all relationships hold up better if they are based on honesty, but it seems like not many people agree with her, at least when it comes to teenage boys. Maybe it hurts their egos to hear that they are not very good at it, that they are supposed to listen to their partner, not center the attention on themselves. At some point she just got fed up with explaining things of such a simple nature to them, only to listen to their endless demurs and accusations – a futile attempt to make world a better place.

Now everything is so much more different.

And she lives for it.

Her inklings be damned.

With Hadlee lost within the depths of own bliss, he gains a chance to watch her, utterly fascinated by the movements – subtle, innate roll of her hips that leaves him aching to speed things up, but something tells him that she will stop if he breaks the silence. Actually, it has been quite a while since he let anyone grind against him like this, since he somehow enjoyed it, although he would be lying if he said it did not please him to see her in such a state – eyes closed, lips subtly parted, nipples straining the fabric of her t-shirt – delectable, ripe, and sweet.

“Hadlee,” he whispers into her ear, the tone of his voice sensually deep, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” she moans as his lips close around her earlobe, sucking gently at the sensitive flesh for a mere second that turns out to be enough to long for the sweet sensation since the very moment he deprives her from it.

“Yes what?” He inquires further, teasingly dipping his fingers beneath the fabric that covers the crease of her thigh just to withdraw them back to where they were before.

“Yes, please,” she complies without a word of demur, much to his liking.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice laced with some kind of exhilaration, as if he was genuinely pleased with her answer. “Now tell me, where do you want me to touch you.”

And by any means, it is not a question.

Instead of giving him a verbal answer, since she feels like it would sound a little bit awkward if spelled out, she grasps his hand, tugging it down to rest between her legs. His response consists of something innate – a teasing brush past the damp fabric, as if he was testing the waters, making sure not to scare her away. She is perceptibly throbbing beneath his touch, as if encouraging him to dip his fingers inside, but he does not comply this time, moving his palm to rest on her hips.

“These,” he snaps the elastic against her skin, hard enough to make it sting, yet not hurt. “Have to come off.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have told,” she heckles, catching him out of the guard for a brief moment. Truth to be told, he did not expect her to counter or anything in this particular state of arousal, and the fact that she does so makes him wonder how capable of controlling herself she really is, or how much he would love to find out what is the veritable answer to said question.

“Temper, temper, kitten,” he chuckles, and she just rolls her eyes in response, barely flinching when he tugs the fabric down, only as much as their current position allows it, but she is rather quick to comply the rest of the way.

However, he gets no chance to catch any glimpse of the newly exposed flesh, since she flops down on his lap, only letting him feel the slick wetness against his skin for a mere second, before she backs away with a deviant glint dancing behind her gaze. She does not bother to hide the obvious – the pursuit to rile him up along with the utter zest that it entails – giving him the taste of his own medicine, since it would be suspicious if she did not participate in such matters.

The gasoline statement be damned.

Clearly fed up with whatever show she is pulling, he fist her hair, tugging her head back a little, just enough to deliver the sensation of pins and needles biting at her scalp. She squeals in surprise, her back involuntarily arching to decrease the strength of his grip and so to soothe the sting blossoming underneath her skin, but he lets her go, almost instantly, and much to her relief.

“Shirt too,” he barks, impatiently waiting for her to remove the remaining clothing that she carelessly tosses aside moments later, not quite bothering where it lands in the end. She flips her hair to the side, letting them fall onto her back, her hands quick to grasp his upper thighs, as if trying to regain some balance, yet to notice the way his gaze sweeps over her skin.

His first time to see her fully naked.

He blinks a couple of times, as if adjusting to the sight in front of him, with a smug smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he brazenly eyes her breasts, heaving with every rapid exhale. If the light was different, more vivid than dim, he would see the rosy hue upon her cheeks, only a mere hint of so called blush. She shifts uncomfortably, as if at complete mercy of his scrutinizing gaze, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around her breasts or simply close her eyes and pretend it is not disturbing to be watched with such insolent manner.

As if caught in some sort of a trance, he reaches out to brush his fingers over the hardened peak, clearly liking the way it puckers more under his touch. She fights the urge to utter a sound, deciding against giving him any satisfaction with her responses, much to his annoyance, so he pinches her nipple, forcing a chocked whine out of her throat. 

“Didn’t know you could whimper like this,” he chuckles darkly, the tone of his voice somehow unnerves her, although it would come to no surprise if it turned out that he gets off on something like this. “Let’s see what else you can do.”

Her first instinct is to writhe out from his grip, tell him that she has changes her mind about it, but on the other hand she will most likely regret leaving it hanging unresolved, and she also is a little curious about what he is actually planning to do with

(to)

her. However, her body – the traitor of a conscious mind, is quicker to form a response – a subtle arch of her back, as if in search for more contact. Her vulva practically screams to be touched, all swollen and throbbing for friction, dangerously close to beg him for relief. Adequately to that, she utters an alleviated moan as soon as he reaches between her legs, tentatively brushing his fingers over her clit. He ignores the achy discomfort caused by the obvious lack of attention, since he naturally prefers to focus on how she practically drips down his fingers as if it was meant to help him in any way, instead of aggravating the whole situation.

“Is this how they used to do it?” He asks, applying more pressure on the tingling nub, as he rubs it in tight little circles that make her arch into his hand, involuntarily seeking out for more attention. “Tell me.”

“Yeah,” she gasps, her thighs falling open to give him more access – an innate response to his touch. “Just like that.”

Receiving this peculiar kind of attention has always felt gratifying – a common statement, not overly intricate to surmise – however, since that Eric is the one doing it, her experiences seems to intensify. The pleasure is delirious, mind-numbing, intoxicating, like a finest drug – addictive since the very first doze, maybe because it has been so long, or maybe he is so skillful at what he is doing, or maybe she merely craves any form of touch.

Or maybe it is more accurate to combine all three.

She squirms a little upon his lap, moaning softly as his fingers prod at her entrance, sliding inside just for a teasing dip that sends a pleasant shiver down her spine, but at the same time leaves her anticipating what follows. He plays her like a musical instrument – an acoustic guitar that requires some tuning, the one that he is luckily willing to provide. As a matter of fact, she should find that kind of ability rather unsettling, especially its vulnerable aspect, but it would also mean that she was obliged to disrupt their encounter, which is unquestionably off the table. 

Akin to certain following measures.

As if caught in some sort of a trance, she rests her head in the crook of his neck, arms enlacing around his nape, leaning to him in a manner that can be considered as excessively trusting, at least in terms of Hadlee. He takes it as a perfect moment to nuzzle her hair, since her scent has always brought him to some odd state of intoxication – a perfect coalescence of fresh and spicy. It undoubtedly consists of a subtle hint of ginger, mingling with some distinct floral scent that he is unable to identify, but it drives him absolutely crazy with every single inhale, delirious with want.

Nevertheless, not enough to spray it over himself.

All of the sudden, still rather briefly after her exclamation, his movements halt, drawing a frustrated gasp out of her throat. He chuckles quietly, amused with her wanton reaction, his breath tickling the side of her neck as he speaks again, voice laced with a teasing drawl that she finds equally exasperating. “Then you’re on a one hell of a ride tonight.”

“What?” She frowns, puzzled with his actions, her mind processing everything way too languidly for her own liking.

He ignores her inquiry attempt, gingerly detangling her arms from around his neck to get a proper look at her face, eyes glinting and lips subtly parted. He never noticed how appealingly plump they are, or maybe still a little swollen from kissing, as he absentmindedly runs his fingers down the length of the bottom one, mesmerized with the way it strains and bounces in time with his touches.

“Personally,” he initiates, still enticed with her lips. “I think it’s polite to repay others in kind.” He hums pleasantly into her ear, soon adjoined by a disapproving tsk-sound due to her answer, or rather the lack of it. “Isn’t it, Lee? Tell me.”

“What do you expect me to do then?” She mimics his velvety tone, drawling her words slightly in a manner that she hopes men of Eric’s kind find appealing.

“Indulge me,” he purrs into her ear, and she shivers at the lascivious timbre that makes her lose the thread for a brief moment. Of course he would want her to please him first – selfish, vain bastard – what was she even expecting? That he would declare his never ending adoration for her? That they would make sweet, sweet love? That he would lull her to sleep like some domestic husband?

Pathetic.

“Indulge you, huh?” She purrs, almost akin to a cat, as her hand slips past the waistband of his boxers in a manner that can be easily considered as tentative, absolutely ditching any attempts of foreplay, as if he deserved them. “How?” She squeezes the hardened flesh a bit too firmly, smirking at the choked sound he utters. “Like this,” another clasp, “or more like this?”

“You’ll regret it, I can assure you that,” he replies, his voice unnervingly calm, considering what she has just pulled, but she cannot care less at the moment, after his denial and selfish proposition.

Curious to find out what lays hidden behind the true meaning of his menacing promise, she does not take a mere attempt to apologize him, instead continues her pursuit of infuriating Eric, squeezing him once more as if she was trying to make some twisted sort of a statement. He groans again, way too close to snap at her and turn the tables, but he decides against it, he decides to drag it a little further, to see what she will do to aggravate her situation, to find an excuse for what he is intending to do.

However, he does not expect her to loosen her hold and slowly stroke him up and down in a clinically rhythmical manner that somehow amuses him, although she is not entirely terrible at that, a few improvements added here and there and it would be perfect. He feels almost relaxed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes in a display of something that can be called confidence, as he lets her hand roam him at its own pace, maybe just to test her abilities, who knows.

He stifles a laugh at her focused expression, frowning, gaze down to the object of her main focus – the way her hand moves underneath the fabric, entirely missing the subtle twitches of his muscles, the straining tendons with every heavy swallow, the general countenance upon his face – a temporary loss of his polished façade for the seemingly greater purpose. 

She remains rapt with whatever stroke she is pulling, lost in some sort of a trance until his hand flies to grasp her wrist, drawing her attention back to his visage. Her movements halt practically on the spot, and for a brief moment she reminds him of a scolded child, caught with hand dipped in the cookie jar despite the fact she is not allowed to eat sweets before dinner – kind of odd but he is still obliged to live up with any half-conscious mind association.

“I think that’s enough for now,” he utters, his voice low and husky, indicating every ragging emotion, as if his eyes were not betraying him far enough. “You know, I’ve always been a strong believer that there is a reaction for every action, and that the little show you were pulling,” what a blatant emphasis. “Certainly requires some… ah… punishment, that’s the word I was looking for. ”

(While I’ve been a strong believer that it was gonna end up quite badly.)

“What do you think, Hadlee?” The silky tone of his statement does nothing to ease her agitation as he whispers the nobble words into her ear, manipulating her in a manner that is almost too enticing to counter. However, her body responds sooner than her brain, attempting to jerk out of his grip, to which he responds with a simple adjustment to hold her a bit more steadily. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can still pretend as if it never happened, go on with our lives the way we used to. The choice is yours.”

It is a gentle, almost caring promise, the one that warms her a little, but she somehow feels like it would be foolish, even spineless, to retreat now, since some twisted part of her actually craves whatever punishment he is planning to deliver.

“It’s not possible,” what did she mention earlier about sealing deals with the Devil? “To go back to the way things used to be.”

“Is that a ‘yes’ then?” He inquires further, tracing his hand through the valley between her breasts in a seemingly careless gesture, yet too endearing to fight. “I need you to say it.”

(Allow someone to degrade you in such a primitive way? Ain’t gonna happen.)

However, her body seems to betray her once more, physical cravings overcoming the will of her conscious mind, as a single word of acceptance slips past her lips, reverberating in the thick air in a reminiscence to some terminal declaration.

“Yes.”

His eyes visibly darken in response to her consent, or maybe the dilation of his pupils is what creates that sort of illusion, but the rapacious manner that he eyes her with still sends shivers down her spine, as if she belonged to him, as if they belonged to each other. Although both of them are pretty much aware of the fallacy of said statement, she feels like he needs it to fool himself, to convince both of them, even if for the merest amount of time, that they are, indeed, that domestic couple she mentioned earlier – the illusion of so called love, intangible, foreign, if not entirely non-existent.

“I think ’yes’ actually happens to be my favorite word,” he avows, as if deep in thought, mindlessly continuing his way down her stomach. “Have I ever told you that?”

“I think you haven’t,” she hesitates, in doubt about her brain’s ability to recall any past event, as his hand curves around the globe of her bottom, digging into the flesh with some kind of possessiveness that she finds rather unsettling. “What are you-”

“Relax,” he purrs, indicating her to get off his lap, and she flops down onto the mattress, supporting her weight on the open palms. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Sure.

“Hmm…” he hums, as if pretending that he is thinking over the whole conception. “I’ll need you on your hands and knees.”

Wordlessly, she complies with his request, shuffling for a brief moment, until she find herself in the desired position, feeling more exposed than ever. She feels like the way her ass sticks up in the air resembles some blatant kind of vulnerability, the one she agrees to abide for his own penchant, maybe even for hers, but this is still considered in terms of dubious.

“Count,” he utters a simple order, his voice ringing from behind, oddly startling in her notion, its usual smooth baritone now a little dark. As if in some innate reflex, her whole body tenses, bracing for the impact, unsure what should she really expect – something more intense or right the opposite, even though Eric has never struck her as someone mild, which is probably supposed to worry her but in fact, it does not.

At some point she gets so lost in her own thoughts that she barely notices the shuffling movement behind her, until it redirects to something else – a seemingly loud smack in the empty room. She bites down on the pillow to mute the weak moan that threatens to slip past her lips – an involuntary response to the sharp sting, which is, in fact, not as painful as she expected it to be. It acts as an incentive for a brand new idea to flood her mind, the one that indicates something that she is most likely going to regret in due course but is still dying to try.

What if she played with him for a little?

“I’ve told you to count, haven’t I?” He asks all of sudden, irritation lacing his voice, which forces her to bite back a giggle as a response to his vexation.

“I’m not gonna count it,” she counters, tossing him a careless glance over her shoulder, suppressing an urge to smirk at his exasperated expression.

“And why is that?” He sounds calmer this time, but it does not ease her, actually quite the opposite, especially when she hears him hastily search through his stuff, too anxious to turn around and watch him, since she is pretty sure it would break her serene exterior.

“Because it was a pussy slap,” she explains with an arrogant swagger that is meant to mimic his typical mannerisms, this time undoubtedly picking up his interest. “You slap like a fucking pussy, Eric.”

Her elucidation leaves him speechless for a brief moment, and for a mere terrifying second she is almost convinced that saying this is equal with overstepping her boundaries, but it is all meant to clarify sooner than she wishes. The gasoline statement reverberates below her skull once more, with even more intensity than the last time, and she catches herself thinking that it would have been a way better if it had never occurred to her in the first place.

However, this doubt is also meant to be sated in due course.

“Do I?” She hears him behind her now, akin to a predator sauntering towards his prey –association that causes her skin to break up with goosebumps and a cold shiver to run down her spine. In this very moment she is more than certain of how much he is meaning to make her regret it.

Yet still, the last thing that she expects is a burning pain caused by the sudden impact, her whole body jerking in time with the swing. She feels the prickling sensation of tears collecting in the corners of her eyes and threatening to run down her face, as her lips press in a thin line, swallowing a choked whimper.

She is not going to give him that satisfaction.

“Was that a pussy slap?” He inquires, and this time she finds the courage to turn around and look at him properly. No, no, no, she counters almost maniacally, it can’t be-

“Did you just hit me with a fucking belt?” She huffs an exasperated gasp, staring at him with utter disbelief, unable to ignore the blossoming sting of already rising welts.

“I’ve told you to fucking count every single fucking slap,” his patience is clearly running thin, not that he ever had much of it anyway. “And we’re gonna do this until you count to ten, understood?”

Fine then.

“One,” she hisses through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to cry out, as his hand connects with her ass once more, this time without the belt, just skin on skin contact. She cannot help but wonder if their pain can be measured equally, if it hurts more to smit or to be smitten. “Two.”

Not quite able to stop it, she lets out a unequivocal moan, drawing a low chuckle from him, as the hit echoes all the way to her clit that is still aching for attention despite being abandoned quite a while ago. He seems to sense her need, but decides against taking measures to soothe it, delivering three harsh strikes to her already sore bottom, and she counts every single one of them, despite the trembling of her voice and the whole humiliating aspect of this act. She still finds it hard to believe that she has given him a verbal permission to perform something like this on her, but then again she craves the variability, the diversion from her usual self.

Sometimes reconciling these two factors can be a little tricky.

Seizing the opportunity of her distracted state, he bends down to reach between her thighs, and she lets out an involuntary mewl at the longed-for contact, pushing back against his fingers in search for more. Her body practically screams in bliss, the contrary sensations driving her insane with lust – the stinging ache blossoming within the reddened flesh and the firm careless that almost causes her to writhe on the mattress.

“Enjoying your punishment, huh?” he murmurs into her ear, pressing a little too hard on the overstimulated nub, eliciting a pitchy squeal from her that sounds entirely foreign for both of them. “Maybe even a little too much, don’t you think?”

“No, no, no,” she shakes her head vehemently, afraid that he might stop, when all of sudden he delivers another two slaps, this time aiming for the juncture where her thigh meets with the bum. “Fuck,” she whines, her self-control running thin in face of his treatment.

“Come again?” smack, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Six, seven, eight!” She cries desperately, her bottom lip trembling on the blink of tears, not just from the pain, which is a rather secondary matter, but the coiling variety of emotions – the virtual cause of her inner turmoil.

“That’s what I thought,” he praises, his fingers quick to be back between her thighs, stroking her in a manner that is almost overly gentle, only adding up to the pile of her pent up frustrations. “Good girl.”

She shivers again due to the shift of his focus and the oddly comforting sound of his voice, her hips rocking in time with his strokes – a mindless pursuit for more friction that he is not planning to deliver. He keeps distracting her for quite a while, alternating between the opposite intensities of pace and pressure, which drives her dangerously close to forgetting about her current position, or rather the circumstances she is under. Soon, she finds herself anticipating the next strike, which is kind of weird in collation to her initial attitude, but she cannot care less about this particular inference at the moment, treating it rather as an effect of her mindless drifting instead of a conclusion that can be used as any further reference.

Suddenly, he slaps her again, breaking her not-quite-conscious reverie, the last two hits firmer than the previous ones, much to her nuisance, but she counts them anyway as if it was some kind of a developing reflex. The air feels heavy, dense with every inhale, onerous to breath in, and she suppresses the innate urge to gulp it with rapid puffs, despite her sudden thirst for oxygen. Instead, she lays down with her forehead resting on the open palms, attempting to calm the convulsing shivering, but since it interferes with his conception, he bluntly tugs her into an upright position, not quite bothering with her objective yelp. 

“Who would have thought you were so into this,” he jeers, obtaining this fake pondering manner that never fails to rile her up. “But most importantly, I should say that I’ve got something to confess, something that has been occupying my mind for quite a while now…”

“I think I’m afraid to ask what it is,” she avows, barely noticing that he is gradually walking them to the other side of the room with a steady grip on her hips, until her back collides with something cold, drawing a surprised squeal from the blonde.

“I’ve been wondering, since you’re always so keen on exposing your true nature,” his words seem cautious, as if perfectly balanced, but she is well aware of the fact that it is yet another part of his polished façade. Sometimes, she likes to wonder whether she is able to crack it, just to see what is hidden inside. “Why not kill two birds with one stone?”

Her first impulse is to ask what he actually means by that, but soon enough, she reflects upon whether it is a decent idea, since he will probably not even bother to tell her the truth, instead bestow her with yet another evasive answer. Therefore, she only flashes him a perplexed glare, remaining perfectly silent, since it has been rather obvious from the very beginning how much he prefers a verbal answer over a plain gesture. Exactly as expected, he only snorts, as an expression of his mild exasperation, motioning her to turn around, and she is left with nothing more than comply to his request.

“Eager to find out by yourself, huh?” His voice vibrates in her ear – a breeze-like whisper that almost slips past her attention, when she gets a frontal view of what is sprawling below her – the whole fucking street. For a brief moment, her ability to speak is gone, crestfallen because of the aforementioned sight, doubtful about his true intentions. 

“You wouldn’t dare-”

“Try me,” he interrupts, amusement evident in his voice, as his hand slowly snakes down the waist to her thigh, directing Hadlee to hoist her knee up onto the window sill, so those couple of inches differing their heights will not create much of an inconvenience, or maybe, just maybe, it is more about spreading her nice and wide for him.

Probably the second one.

In response, another violent shiver shots through her body, the juxtaposition of nervous anticipation and apparent lust sends her mind into some blasé state where she barely notices that at some vague point he has gotten rid of his underwear. However, what manages to pierce through the blurry barrier is the teasing friction applied over her tingling bundle of nerves by what seems to be his fingers, as if distracting her from the final purpose, or rather the unpleasant stretch of being filled up after those few months. Although he does not fail entirely in this case, she still utters a subdued whimper in face of his not-so-sudden invasion – expected yet still painful – trying to focus on what is happening on the street.

As if it was a better alternative.

She has suspected for quite a while now that Eric might have some exhibitionistic tendencies, since he is so keen on the whole show off thing, but it is still not enough to prepare her for becoming involved in any of his deviant fantasies, or more accurately for the possibility that she might find such exploits to be more intriguing than repellent. In addition, he possesses some devilish kind of ability to bring out the parts of her that were hidden so deeply that even she was unable to note their existence, and yet he apparently manages to surpass Hadlee when it comes to discovering her latent desires.

“Fuck,” he curses from behind her, white spots marking his vision as her walls clamp around him, simultaneously with the invasion, as if begging for more, and who is he to deny her the well-deserved release?

As if he could ever deny her anything.

“Eric,” she mewls, her voice surprisingly weak with a hint of burning desperation that he is never meant to forget, grinding against him ever slightly without even realizing it – an unconscious response that eventually cracks his resolve. “I really need you to move.”

His hips snaps with a force that makes her head bump into the cool glass, entirely unprepared for his newfound vigor that sends her body rocking back and forth in attempt to balance his thrusts. However, he is quick to sense her discomfort, steadying her dainty figure with a firm grip around her waist and hip, her hands flying forward to lay flat against the window’s surface. For a split second, he keeps her too distracted to think about how easily someone might spot them, someone perceptive, with a penchant for the details, a tendency to look up closely, maybe a plain guy walking down the street, or the opposite-window neighbor

(oh God, not him),

but it all appears as clear as day when she sees a flash of light in one of the flats.

“Who would have thought you, ah-“ she interrupts herself with a loud moan, induced by a particularly hard thrust that makes her forget what she was trying to say at the begging, even if for a mere moment. “That you wanted anyone to see me in such a state? I’ve always taken you as someone more possessive than charitable, and all of sudden you’re so willing to share me with all of these people?”

“Hypocrite,” he groans into her ear, voice low and raspy, enough to make her lose the track again, especially when he picks up the pace, ire evident in his almost fierce movements. “A fucking hypocrite, that’s what you are, enjoying this oh so much. I bet if I ever wanted to repeat it, you would jump straight into it, am I right?” He smirks, with such smugness that would possibly vex her more than anything, if only she was able to see it. “But you wouldn’t admit it, because why would you? Why would you want to indulge me in any way, always the selfish one.”

“Look who’s talking,” she snorts mockingly, his thrusts slowing down for a fleeting moment, as if curious about what she is intending to end up with. “You don’t need a confirmation, being such a egocentric-” 

Suddenly, a loud slap echoes in the room, a slap that she knows all too well, along with the burning pain that follows, entrapping the words in her throat, taking away her breath for a brief moment. She squeals in surprise, merely considering kicking him in the shin as some silly kind of vengeance – an idea that becomes abandoned sooner than it ever occurred in the first place.

“If you don’t fucking behave, I can assure you that I’ll spank you here, and whoever gets to watch will be the luckiest son of a bitch over there,” he growls with some frantic lust that makes her actually question his sanity, as if she has never done it before, his words like an odd coalescence of syllables that has never been spoken before – a fleeting notion that retreats too fast to be considered as present and remarkable, or remembered. “Am I making myself clear?”

“As crystal,” she swallows heavily as he digs his fingers into her hips, purposely bruising the tender flesh, as if to punish her further. Oddly enough, this is the first time this night when her mind gives her a proper chance to immerse in all these little sensations he bestows her with – from the subtle but exquisite sensation of his lips trailing down the column of her neck, nipping here and there to draw a quite gasp from her throat, to the burning ache of being filled up in such a sinful way. 

She has never loved Eric, that is for sure, but she most certainly does love this.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, close to losing his composure because of the damned lad. Never ever he would have considered Hadlee to be such a tight fit, squeezing him like a seasoned pro, although in her case it probably comes from lack of experience along with the unawareness of her body’s abilities, rather than anything else. However, it does not change the profound affect that it has over him, the one that he finds rather unnerving, driving him into some odd vulnerable state where he is unable to focus on nothing more than her sinful mannerisms.

Much aware of the fact that reaching his orgasm before her would be more than embarrassing, he is positive about speeding up the process, deciding to ditch most of the begging-to-cum part. He reaches to her front, gliding smoothly between her legs to find the swollen nub that aches for his attention, rubbing it in firm circles that have her arching toward his hand in search for more intense experiences. He secretly adores the way she responds to every stroke, half-consciously leaning closer, her muscles twitching under his teasing touch, breathless gasps of his name escaping past her trembling lips.

“More, I’m so close,” she moans, throwing her head back to rest it upon his shoulder, hair tickling his flesh as she shifts in his grip, but, much to her annoyance, his movements slow down, applying less pressure to the throbbing area.

“We don’t do stuff here for free, doll,” he smirks – a mocking, condescending smirk that under any other circumstances would leave her with no other choice than a classic, scornful eye roll, but this time she is too blasé to even come up with such a thing. “Hope you’re smart enough to figure that out.”  
In such a state?

(Probably not what that old twat, who dared to call herself a teacher, meant by naming the best examples of ‘pie in the sky’).

Whatever.

“Please, Eric, please, I need to, ah-” she chants desperately, the trembling of her voice almost making it impossible to utter any other sound than a moan. “I’m so close, just… please.”

He somehow gets the idea that she is close to bursting from frustration, her body shivering in his arms, leg aching due to being held in clearly not the most comfortable position imaginable, and finally he takes some mercy for her, or maybe just for himself, pressing a little harder. She utters a wanton mewl, and all of the sudden she snaps, her head back on its previous spot upon his shoulder, this time with her eyes rolled back, cheeks prettily flushed, body arched in an appealing curve. Unsurprisingly, it takes almost no extra effort for Eric to follow her as she clamps down on him, making it fairly impossible to move, sending his orgasm to some frenzied state of bliss, with a long string of courses spilling past his lips.

And then, in a seemingly surreal way, everything dulls down, as if all it was supposed to take was allaying their carnal desires.

As if in an attempt to catch their breaths, they remain like this for a little while, join in one of the most intimate ways possible, at least according to some people, her head resting on his shoulder, his nose buried in her hair, arms wrapped around the dainty body to hold her steadily against his slick chest. Those moments have always been somehow precious to him, when he is able to lie back and rest, blissfully unaware and floating, the only thing occupying his mind is the warmth of her body, the sweet scent of her hair, and the thought that he is truthfully and utterly satisfied.

At least for now.

“Well,” he adds after a few longer moments, required to catch his breath. “Seems like it’s called ‘little death’ for a reason.”

“La petite mort,” she repeats mindlessly, both her voice and mind still lost somewhere far, far away.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he laughs, sincerely this time – a nice variety from his usual behavior. “Your French is absolutely terrible, you know that?”

“See if I care,” she mumbles, gently pushing him away to imply that she wants to depart, to which he complies, slowly sliding out of her, as if to prevent any excess discomfort that this peculiar act may cause.

She remains by the window sill, bracing her weight to the front, as he backs away for a couple of steps to get a proper look at her delicate figure, especially that single detail that attracts his attention for the most part – what lays between her legs. He is absolutely enchanted by the way his pearly essence drips down her thigh – a primal mark of possession – and she does not even bother to squeeze her legs together, still lost in some blissful state of ignorance, anywise holding up on the trembling knees.

His.

Finally.

* * *

The morning light peers down on her face, waking her from the blissful sleep that she managed to get after their little session yesterday, or technically today, illusionary tickling any exposed parts of her skin, since it seems like they have forgotten to close the curtains. Oddly so, her eyes fall open at the spot, no attempts to fool herself that lying with closed eyelids is equal with sleeping, stretching her body with delighted moan that involuntarily slips past her lips, not bothering with the fact that it might wake him up, if she moves too rapidly.

As a matter of fact, she has no idea whether anyone saw them yesterday, or technically today, but at the same time she finds herself not caring, maybe they at least enjoyed the show or something. She would never admit it to him, but she still feel sort of entranced after the whole experience, content, and calm. It drives her to the conclusion how unlikely it is that she will ever forget it, even if he leaved her, or maybe the other way around, the memory would still remain sealed somewhere deep inside her mind, as if to recall when the right time comes.

It brings her back to the thoughts from a few days back, along with the way she used to perceive Eric, the designation she bestowed him with, ridiculously absurd in face of recent events, leading her to the seemingly final inference. Maybe he is not The Man Who Sold the World, maybe this title has been adopted by the Woman – maybe it was her for the entirety of their time. Come to think of it, the statement sounds far more sensible, far more sublime – The Woman Who Sold the World.

Or far more nonsensical, inane, fatuous, which might also be connected with her custom to the original title.

Or maybe, just maybe, there is no pertinent answer to that question.

And that thought bestows her with some peaceful awareness.

Was everything really that simple the whole time?

**Author's Note:**

> Created: 04/18/20  
> Completed: 06/16/20  
> Edited: 06/18/20


End file.
